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Sananda Maitreya

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THE PARASITE POEMS:

why the parasite poems?
to cleanse my colon of semi-colons
and to free a mind blown apart by brain storms.

§

I would that you were a cockroach
caught beneath my shoe
and held in place by gum
so that I can jump up and down
joyfully and for once not worry about
where you are or when you'll next attack
the sound of crunch
is better than
the smell of lunch
though you wouldn't know this
now that your screeching bats
have fallen on the grass
like bunts

§

Is there somewhere a younger hostage
ignorant of your game?
from whom new blood can be taken and extracted
and who could use a teeth mark tattoo
like the discreet ones you used to do
before your age caught up with you
and rendered forth the awful truth
that you haven't much else besides excuses,
lies and more
and baggage bigger than the door
though it flies first class on another's dime
money cross collateralized against your time
were you less wicked you'd have
paid it
rather than the goldfish that
the master baited

§

The roots grow
out of my ears
but you only caress
the leaves
which fall from
the branches
of my bank

§

My roots have raged
that they have been forced to carry you
the undercarriage of my estate
will be summer in a fall or two
unless it fails to get up
but getting up is child's play
once the boil on the leech erupts
and once the diamondback has rattled on
and spilled his bitter cups

§

Better off in Iraq I would be
beneath an arrow falling
from the tree
that shelters me
from minefields blooming
expectations blow up
when business is booming
the common sense and values
that served once as pavilions
within which rested some gratitude
now
bounce one payment,
rest the stallions
and the cough from your chest
is all attitude

§

Every night the leeches sleep
and dream of greater speed

§

Whose venom drips from the vipers fangs
if not the leeches from which it hangs
pierced, now swollen
its will now wandering, disjointed
the fate that it had once appointed
its host when it was young
and prone to boast
about the head his ghost
had anointed
when the butter was sweet
and the crust was fresh
before it became dry toast
so delicious is a squirming leech
plucked from beneath the skin
of someone else's peach

§

I scrappled with a piece of star
and pulled it by its hair to the floor
and chased the worms out of the apple core
and used them as fresh bait
now they squirm inside a bass' gills
like nympethamines
or like gilded lilies, spoiled from debate
which line the barrel
of fishes bellies
pulled out the next day as caviar
pisces falling, vertigo rising
I swallow the light from her star

§

There you are:
a pampered pastel parasite
latched on to your host
and daring to hiss at his joy
newly resurrected from
the haunts of continuum
and patched back on his
freshly painted shield
once attended by heralds
thereafter pursued by your
jinxes and tumbling perils
seemingly connected
by its root to your mouth
which sucks dry
what it cannot hope to merit
unless you can find
a way to scare it

§

Your reputation has been very expensive to maintain !
may it now fall to its rightful station
your train can roll now on its own steam
and now you can blow smoke on someone else's dream
and steal pineapples from your own plantation
and profit from your own scheme
though that amounts to work :
DON'T SCREAM!
(and stop being a jerk)

§

….anyway
our youth never belonged to us,
only to our imaginations

§

A morbid slug
lounging on a grave stone
couldn't read the writing
on the marble beneath its weight:

here lies
Jake Mc Gilly
born with hard luck
so he laughed himself silly
made a fortune
lost a fortune
then found love
and so found
another fortune

§

Another read:

here lies
Lucinda Prill
she'd still be alive
had she kept herself still
no one dances with
dark scorching lightening
who isn't in pantomime
a death wish fighting

§

An apple once spit out a worm
which was hanging on by the ropes
it may have been in Putney Green
or perhaps it was Putney Swopes
I just know it would be peachy keen
if its eye line moved out of my scopes
and
I will swallow a lot less bullshit
when its hands get out of my throat

§

In the end the parade
winds down starved
of attention
for its own charade
and blown upon
by winds not just
of indifference
but by flatulence
as well
and once the bull
has been stripped
of its cow bell
even his farts
were measured in parts
and sold as
anonymous smell
as disaffected whiff
a drum major
tapping out
a scratch and sniff
on the ground
before it swells
and gathering up
in martial time
the ashes in the blood
before they gel

§

Even young parasites know
that it is a free fall
it's the crash landing
you pay for

§

The jacks have dropped their swords
at the last pub before the house of lords
even revolutionaries have to eat
and mend their stockings before they meet
that fate, which counsels late
which ropes are stranglers
and which ropes are cords
that either send us beneath
or pull us up from the boards
these questions are often
left hanging
but to the boards
rope is rope
and banging is banging

§

Hunters care not for mystic birds
who may be phoenixes sleeping
they don't want reality tweaks
only the meat they are bent on keeping
when dead eye meets corona
crashing beaks
begin to wail
like the blubbering
tears of Jonah…

§

…why would Beelzebub shiver
from the loss of birds?
too many eyes are on the sparrow,
the fragrance of feathers will be gone
by tomorrow
and the arrows of sorrow
make hummingbirds quiver
who eat sweet things when
they eat their words
or when promises can't deliver
and this is as the devil prefers,
to pass his sentence watching proud
hawks play hide and seek
in the clouds

§

NOTHING IS PREMATURE!
Or else the time lords could not endure
the pain of trying to hold back the doors
whose prime allure is in stoking the fires before
the track has figured out how to pull in the slack
before bouncing newborns, who come as trains
(though waxed)
have landed too hard upon a terrain
that would saddled the side walk
and seal the cracks
before joy took root in their coddling form
JAGGER WAS BORN IN A CROSS FIRE HURRICANE
bullshit is usually born in a dust storm
whether cold or warm
and spirals out like pollen
sung by suits whose lips are pursed
and whose allergic eyes are sullen

§

…he crawled into consciousness
still on his knees
but now on the shoulders of men


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA - MILANO 3TH JANUARY 2005
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED